Farewell to Everest
by Aenisses Thai
Summary: Amelia Novak and Castiel grapple with the concept of atonement. Ch. 3. "What happened between us didn't feel like sin." "What did it feel like?" His eyes light up. "Redemption."
1. Chapter 1

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for Season 5, Episode 1

**Warnings:** dark, adult themes; issues with consent; harsh language

**Author note:** I do not warn for character death in any of my stories, since I consider it a plot spoiler. If character death is an emotional trigger for you, I urge you to avoid my work. Thank you for understanding.

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

/-/-/

**Farewell to Everest**

**Chapter 1.**

She catches the thin strip of navy silk in her fingers and, unthinking, deftly straightens the crooked knot. Suddenly she realizes what she's doing and yanks at the knot instead, the breath knifing from her lungs as she pulls the silk almost violently from around his neck. Long fingers lightly grip her wrists, steadying her.

She jerks her hands away, hissing as if burned. "Don't you touch me!" Rage curls incandescent across her tongue, through her lungs, her blood. His hands drop away, and she takes a deep breath, reaching for tenuous, trembling control. Right, then. She begins undoing the buttons on his white shirt, keeping her eyes fixed on her task, unwilling to lift her gaze and see—

/-/-/

_Seventeen years earlier_

Blue eyes sparking above the wind-flickered flame. "Light?"

_Busted._ She draws out the slightly crushed cigarette from its hiding place, suddenly noticing the singe mark on her skirt. "Shit!"

"Smoking and swearing on campus in your first month here. Impressive." There's no judgment in his light tenor, more like amusement, but she still bristles defensively.

"Are you going to report me?"

"Huh. I must be wearing my dick-face today." He flicks the lighter again. She hesitates, and he rolls his eyes. "That's a no, dummy. So do you want the light or not? I'm not made of propane, you know."

She leans in, holding her cigarette to the flame, appreciating the gentle touch of his fingers as he cups the lighter from the wind. A long drag, and she feels calmer already, exhaling the smoke politely away from him.

"So what's a nice Catholic girl doing in an Evangelical college like this?"

She grits her teeth. Here we go again. "Getting ready to sew a scarlet A on my sweater, apparently."

"Whoa, whoa!" He holds up his hands in surrender. "So I guess sucking at opening lines is a hanging offense. Can I throw myself on the mercy of the court, or do I choose my last meal now?"

She laughs in spite of herself, softened by the winsome plea in those amazingly clear eyes.

He grins. "I hope that means I've earned a do-over. My name is—"

"James Novak, sophomore. Student leader for the Theological Context discussion series." She nervously grinds out her cigarette beneath his shining gaze. "I've been here a month, like you said. Even idol-worshipping Catholics notice the holy hotshots on campus."

"Personal dig poorly concealed under the sheerest veneer of flattery. I like it." He tips his head to catch her gaze. "My friends call me Jimmy."

"Jimmy? Not," she lowers her voice to an exaggerated masculine drawl, "Jim or James or the ever romantic Jamie?"

"Just Jimmy." The wind ruffles his hair into dark, feathery tufts, transforming him from Bible geek to something almost otherworldly—

/-/-/

The white shirt falls across the jacket and trenchcoat in a crumpled heap on her bedroom floor. She feels a dull throb of satisfaction at seeing the deep creases in the pristine material, the ruin of the formerly smooth surface. She'd like to take a knife, an awl to every smooth surface she can see, slashing and digging until everything in the world matches the tattered, ruined scraps of her soul.

Her voice is a tattered ruin as well. "Take off—" she gestures at his shoes, "—and your belt." Some distant part of her marvels at this cold, venomous woman, this creature that didn't exist a bare hour ago. However, most parts of her don't give a good goddamn.

/-/-/

_Forty-five minutes earlier_

Footsteps echo across the bare floors: at least two people, moving past the stacked boxes in her foyer, her living room. Her heart jumps in her throat, accompanied by a brief flash of gratitude that Claire is at her mother's, but it doesn't stop the terror crawling across her skin. What idiocy made her think she'd be safe here just because it was midday?

She curses her stupidity and fumbles for the salt container, completing a wide circle around herself just as shadows lance through the sunlight on her dining room floor.

Relief is an intoxicating rush of air in her lungs. It's them—it's _him_. She rises slowly to her feet, staring at the familiar and unfamiliar merging, but…she can't sense the faint crackle of energy, that slight scent of ozone that had held her immobile when he'd walked out of the warehouse after staring blankly (coldly) at her and Claire. Right now, his expression is far from cold: it's vulnerable and a little lost, and oh so human…

"Jimmy!" Joy propels her forward over the salt line, her hands already reaching for him—

—but he flinches back.

"No." The warning is gentle, as gentle as the hand that grips her elbow. She stares, confused, into Dean Winchester's deceptively guileless face, reading something dark behind his eyes.

_No, _he said. _No._ Ironically, she turns for reassurance to the second man, the creature wearing her husband's face. "But Jimmy's still in there…somewhere…right?"

Blue eyes she knows better than her own grow dim with ancient sorrow. "I am sorry, Amelia," spoken in a low, raspy timbre.

A punch of shock drives the breath from her lungs, slicing the ground from beneath her feet, sending her tumbling, falling—

/-/-/

_Seventeen years earlier_

"Glad you could make it." He grabs the seat in front of her, waving an absent goodbye to the last stragglers from the study group as he straddles the chair, resting his chin on its back.

She pulls her purse onto her lap, trying to hide her self-consciousness under a cocky tone. "Just thought I'd see what all the fuss is about."

"And?" His gaze is so open, so puppylike in its hopeful expectation that it drags a smile from her reluctant lips.

"I thought we were supposed to be fishers of men, not fishers for compliments."

"Death, where is Thy sting?" One hand clutches dramatically at his chest, while the other draws her to her feet. "Come on, we can still grab a coffee at the Stupe if we hurry. Then you can start showering me with well-earned praise."

Is this his version of asking her for a date? She pulls back, hesitant. "Listen, I'm not looking for… I have plans for my life, and they don't include—" She stops, feeling stupid under his teasing squint.

"Been listening to rumors about us holy rollers, eh? Don't believe everything you hear. We don't all choose our life partners before asking them out on a first date. Besides, I have plans, too, and they don't include marriage by age twenty-one."

She follows him out into the starlit night, down paved paths towards the student union. "What plans?"

"Going to Mount Everest," he announces, and she envies his confidence.

"You're a world traveler?"

"Hardly. Only been to…" he counts off fingers, "ten states so far, and that includes a road trip to Florida. Never been out of the country, not even to Canada."

"But you're into mountain climbing." She glances skeptically at his weedy form.

"Hah! Yeah, growing up in Illinois really makes me an expert in scaling peaks. Air starts getting thin in the higher cornfields." He grins at her confusion. "Look, just because I'm not a crampons and oxygen tank type of guy doesn't mean I wouldn't love to hike through Nepal just to get a good look at her. A good, long look…_ Chomolungma._" His voice trails off wistfully.

"Who?" She's beginning to feel as if she's caught in a conversation with a foreigner, cryptic broken English and all.

"_Chomolungma._ Mother Goddess of the Himalayas. Everest." He breathes the names with a reverence he should reserve for God, she thinks a little unkindly, and for some reason, she likes him better for it. He snaps his attention back to her. "So what about you? What really brings you here?" and she can't figure out if he means to indicate the campus, the world, or her entire existence.

She shrugs, unable to come up with a good answer for any of those choices. "I guess I'm looking for solid ground. My mom spent a year here when she was young, and she said…well, it seemed as good a place as any to start looking." She clamps her lips shut, trying not to think of how long it's been since she last felt secure in her place in this world. Maybe not since sixth grade, when she had suddenly become the only kid at St. John's with divorced parents, the subject of well-meaning but cloying pity from the nuns and lay teachers.

Jimmy catches her arm, turning her to face him. "So you decided to enroll at Wheaton, sign a code of conduct that you only half believe in, attend Bible study just because the student leader hustled you into it, and for what? Because you think solid ground is a degree you can earn?" The words would sting if not for the honest curiosity in his voice.

His honesty unlooses something similar in herself. "I came here because you all seem so sure, so damn certain of your faith! Where you're going, what your life means…none of you seems to ever—"

"Doubt?"

"Yeah." She wonders if she can get away with lighting a cigarette this close to the Stupe.

"Faith is easy." He plows on past her snort of disbelief. "You just let go and let yourself believe. Like trust falls in stupid management seminars; no thought needed at all. Doubt, on the other hand, takes intellect. Thinking about every possible outcome, taking into account science and logic and human nature, figuring out how and _if_ it all fits together—hey, it's hard work. You shouldn't look down on yourself for being smart."

He grins, pulling open the door to shed a rectangle of yellow light on the path, accompanied by the warm fragrance of coffee and pastries. For the first time in a long time, she imagines she feels the planet firm beneath her feet.

/-/-/

It's Dean Winchester who catches her as her knees buckle, leads her to the couch with strong, capable hands, makes her sit. The sensation pressing down on her is shock, she knows, thick and unyielding, wrapping her in dense fog. Rationality is murky, distant, something she reaches for with random, half-formed questions.

"I don't understand." Her voice sounds far away even to herself. "I just saw you…_him_…it's only been what, two weeks?"

The creature accompanying Dean stands off to one side, shoulders hunched under her husband's coat, features drawn in grim lines as he stares at the floor.

He looks just like Jimmy.

He looks nothing like Jimmy.

She can't grasp what's going on.

It's not the subject matter. Once not so long ago, Dean's explanations would've sounded insane, but she knows better now. Oh yes, she knows _infinitely_ better now.

Demons.

Lucifer. The Apocalypse.

Wrathful archangels.

"So where is he? Jimmy…his soul." Dean falls silent, so she seeks out the other's gaze. "You said it before: fields of the Lord, right? Is that heaven—is he in heaven? Can you get him back?"

Those eyes finally lift to meet hers, and she shivers under the weight of that sorrowful gaze. "No. I don't know where his soul has gone."

"How can you not know? You're a—what you are!"

He swallows and looks down. "Heaven has cast me out. I'm no longer…I can't hear them."

And suddenly, it's all too much, _too damn much_, and rage boils up in her, dark, swift, and ugly like demon possession but not a foreign presence; this time it's her, all her.

She leaps off the couch, curling her fist and striking him in the face as hard as she can. He staggers back, a red mark appearing on his cheek, and she wants to smash it, smash him, smash that face that mocks her with her loss.

"Stop it!" Hands grab her from behind. "Stop it, Amelia, he's not to blame! If you want to blame anybody, blame me! I forced him into it, I pushed him—"

"No, Dean. The choice was mine. I stand by my decision."

Even through the swirling vortex of her rage, she can feel it: a tangible connection between the two men, more profound than friendship, deeper than simple trust. Something that hadn't existed the last time they'd interacted before her. She'd had that once; she'd had that with a man who no longer—

"What about Jimmy?" She jerks out of Dean Winchester's grasp. "What was his decision? What did he choose?"

Silence answers her question.

"You never even asked him, did you? You never gave him the chance. His life meant _nothing_ to you!" She's shouting now, the rage too big, too fierce to be contained; she's screaming in the angel's stolen face, her hands fisted in his coat. "You can't begin to understand what he sacrificed, what he lost, what we _all _lost! You and your apocalypse—how can you pretend to care about humans when you didn't give a damn about the one man who— You used him and used him, and you never—once—understood!"

Just like that, her rage loses its heat, its explosive force. Just like that, staring into his sad, uncomprehending gaze, she feels ice crackle through her veins, creep across her heart, shore up her limbs with cold, brittle purpose.

He doesn't understand Jimmy's sacrifice.

He will.

She'll see to it.

/-/-/

_Thirteen years earlier_

She reads the print once, twice, and yet again, holding the paper with trembling fingers. Not that the doctor had been anything other than perfectly clear, but for some reason, the printed page holds more reality for her than any number of verbal assurances.

The flimsy apartment door slams open and shut. "Ames!" and she quickly shoves the report under her pillow, knowing he'll be at the bedroom door in a few quick strides. She's barely gotten to her feet when he seizes her and twirls her in a giddy circle. She laughs, breathless, shaken out of her stunned reflective state. Could he possibly know?

"Listen, listen, listen!" he sings as he clasps her close, practically dancing her through their tiny apartment. "I got a promotion today—after only six months, can you believe it? —but Mr. Francik thinks I could sell ice to Eskimos, or at least he said so, and now I'm on full commission and do you know what that means?" He sets her gently aside so he can fling his arms out. "Everest, here we come! I'm up for vacation in six months and Mr. Francik said if I needed to, I could take a couple extra weeks without pay, so all you have to do is to get the same time off and we're set!"

She catches her breath. He's beautiful. His hair is wavy and wind-tossed as if he had run all the way home from the bus stop, his cheeks flushed, his eyes a clear, radiant blue. Although she's been in love with him for a long time, she's never really seen him like this, not even on their wedding day.

He doesn't notice her stare, however, rushing back and forth through their small living space as he energetically counts off points on his fingers. "We'll have to look up plane fare to Nepal. We can use the money in our savings account—which means it'll take a while longer before we can afford a house, but this is worth it—and look into hiking gear. That's expensive, but maybe Steve has some he'll be willing to lend us. And we'll need shots; we have to get doctor's appointments and—"

Reality is a stinging slap in the face. "Jimmy," she chokes.

He's still too immersed in his plans to notice. "I wonder if there's a mission house in Nepal? We could bring supplies, maybe do a little good while we're on vacation. And we have to get into shape: build up our endurance, spend a few weekends hiking out at Starved Rock—"

"Jimmy!"

He finally slows down enough to really see her. "Amelia? Is something wrong?"

"I'm pregnant."

There's a second or two of silence, a suspension of time in which he absorbs the implications. First, there's shock, but he's always been quick so he doesn't linger there, instead working through what this means to their lives, their plans—

Tears spring to her eyes, and she holds a hand up to her mouth.

"Oh, hey," he breathes, drawing her into his arms. "Don't cry, sweetheart. Everything's okay, right? The…the baby is all right, isn't it? And you?" He peers anxiously into her face.

"Yes," she says. "Everything's good. Dr. Weiss says it looks like a good start, perfectly normal, and he's given me about fifty vitamins, and—"

"Oh, God." Jimmy pulls her tight. "Thank you, Lord, thank you for your blessing, for this gift," and he sounds so sincere that the tension leaves her shoulders, and she melts into his embrace.

It isn't until later that night, as he sleeps beside her still protectively gripping her hand, that her tears begin again. Part of it is fear—what does she know at age twenty-two about being a mother?—part of it is hormones, probably—but most of it is the memory of his face, those first moments when, in his naked, stricken gaze, she watched his dream die.

/-/-/

She releases the angel's coat and turns to Dean Winchester. "Get out of my house."

He barely flickers an eyelid, but guilt seeps from his entire being, from the slight hunching of his leather-clad shoulders to the downward twist of his lips.

It means nothing to her.

"All right," he croaks, then tosses two dark blue booklets onto the coffee table. "Passports for you and Claire. Fake names. They'll help you hide, especially if you want to leave the country." He pulls another scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbles on it, "But if you ever need to reach us…"

She makes no move to accept it from his hands, so he sets it gently next to the passports. "Okay. We'd better go, Cas."

"No." She blocks the angel's path. "He stays."

For one brief second, all three of them freeze in a strange tableau, like a group of actors waiting for the director to yell, "Cut!"

The angel's eyes flash to hers, widening slightly before he veils them beneath his lids.

Dean takes a step toward her, hands spread wide in a conciliatory gesture. "Amelia, you can't keep him here. He's not Jimmy, you know."

"Oh, I know that." And maybe her tone is just that sharp with dark intent, because Dean's posture whipsaws from gentle to dangerous, the demon hunter coiled and ready beneath his boyish freckles.

All the same, he makes one last attempt at being reasonable, licking his lips as he searches for the right words. "Look, I know something about loss, and I know that you can get a little crazy at first. So I'm really, _really_ sorry for you and Claire, but I think it's best if Cas and I leave now, before any of us does something we're gonna feel bad about later. Come on, Cas, let's get outta here."

The angel doesn't move, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Oh, don't you start. Don't you even—I told you it was a bad idea coming here, but no, you wouldn't listen to me. Damn it, this is _not _good at all! You're not staying here when you don't even know what she wants from you!"

Icy tendrils of bitterness curl around her heart. "He knows."

"Then I wish one of you would fill me in, 'cause from where I'm standing, this is one fucked-up, crazy-ass mess!"

"Tell him," she says to the angel, as cool as if issuing orders to a celestial being were part of her everyday routine.

"Penance," he intones in that low rasp, lifting his eyes at last to lock with hers. "Atonement."

She nods, a quick, jerky motion, biting her lip as satisfaction lodges in her throat like a sob.

"Fuck that! Fuck that noise! We're blowing this joint. Lady, I don't want to hurt you, but if you get in our way—"

She absently notes that she is now "lady" instead of "Amelia", and maybe in some previous existence that would have bothered her (_the existence in which she wasn't a widow_), but at this moment, she can't muster enough attention to care. She has bigger concerns.

"Dean." The angel moves past her, but she knows he's not running away, because he's as trapped in this twisted dance as she is. He murmurs low to his friend, and Dean slaps the wall in frustration and turns to storm out.

He stops just short of crossing the threshold, however, and looks back, tightly controlled fury vibrating through his form. "Lady, I don't know what your game is, but if you hurt him, I swear I'll—"

She should be frightened, but for some reason, she stares calmly back at him. What can he do to her? What can he do that the angel hasn't already done?

He must read this in her face, because he cuts off his threat and strides out, slamming the door behind him.

Now it's just her and the angel. He stands before her with eyes downcast and hands curled loosely at his sides, as if he's waiting for orders.

Well, then, she won't disappoint him.

"Upstairs."

/-/-/

_To be continued_

_/-/-/_


	2. Chapter 2

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers for Season 5, Episode 1

**Warnings:** dark, adult themes; issues with consent; sexual situations; harsh language

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

/-/-/

**Chapter 2.**

She rummages through the boxes in her bedroom, hands made clumsy by her hyperawareness of the angel slouched near her window. Afternoon light seeps through the simple blinds, striping across his face, his hands, that utilitarian trench coat. Despite his casual pose, there's something strange in his posture, something that screams _otherness_ despite the fact that he's barely visible in her peripheral vision.

It's his stillness, she realizes, his complete lack of tics or twitches. For one awful moment, she wonders if he even breathes, if Jimmy had spent the last year of his life struggling for air, a celestial thumb pressed figuratively against his throat. Horror sweeps through her, and it's all she can do to keep from gagging aloud. Against her will, her eyes dart over to him.

He meets her panicked stare with his usual detached gaze, his chest visibly rising and falling beneath the crooked blue tie.

She jerks her head away as if he'd slapped her. _'Stay out of my mind!'_ she wants to scream but bites her lip to keep the words inside. She has no proof he's been reading her, and she'll be damned before she gives him the satisfaction of raving like a madwoman.

She's not insane. She knows what she's doing.

She opens the last box and is relieved to feel thick layers of tissue paper wrapped around hard objects. She unwraps each one carefully and lays them out on the single sheet that covers the mattress. "Come here."

The angel approaches with his hands tucked in the coat pockets, stopping just short of her personal space. He tilts his head to look at the pictures. Her fingers clench on the wedding photo in its crystal frame.

God, she looks so young—they both look so young, so certain of the benevolent future that awaited them, joined with God's grace on this day. This isn't one of the stiff, formal photos; it's the black-and-white candid shot taken by his friend Brian, whose natural talent eventually won him a staff position at the Tribune. She and Jimmy are laughing into each other's eyes, his hair beginning to escape its tightly combed control, the ribbons from her simple circlet wound loosely through his long, elegant fingers.

She'd always loved his hands, wished hers were half as graceful…remembered those hands trembling as he unhooked the thousand tiny clasps on the back of her dress, their first time together as a married couple.

She exhales sharply and grabs the next photo, holding it up for the angel's inspection. It's Jimmy cradling a two-year-old Claire, the child's face reddened by angry wails. His eyes are alight with amusement, his lips pursed sympathetically as he tries to soothe her fit of toddler rage. He'd been the only one Claire would respond to whenever the world became too much for her baby senses. Daddy's girl.

Daddy's girl to the end.

Amelia runs her fingers along the frame of the last photo: Jimmy holding a helmet and goggles, windblown and grinning as he stands beside a helicopter on Navy Pier, the teal blue waters of Lake Michigan behind him stretching endlessly to the horizon.

"Do you see?" The cracked sound of her voice is harsh in the quiet room. "He had a life. He had us. He was somebody."

"Yes."

"Yes, what? Yes, you see the photos? Yes, you understand English? Yes, you understand what you _did to us?"_

His expression grows visibly troubled, yet he replies in that infuriating monotone, "What would you have me say?"

She chokes out a sound, half-sob, half-laugh. "I'd have you say you know where he is. I'd have you say you're bringing him back to me. But that's not going to happen, is it? You got what you wanted from him, just like that demon got what it wanted from me, and now you're done with him."

And there it is, the memory she's been fiercely repressing for the past two weeks: that roiling, vicious sensation of being penetrated everywhere, violated down to the most secret corners of her being. She remembers watching helplessly as her hands bound her stunned daughter to a chair, her finger tightened on a trigger _(she screams and screams),_ Jimmy's shirt blossomed red, and _God, God, why have you forsaken us?_

A firm, almost painful grip on her arm yanks her back to reality. "I'm no demon, Amelia."

"Oh, no? Then what do you call a creature that violates a twelve-year-old girl?"

She's finally broken through his façade of angelic detachment. His face twists with anger, and he shakes her arm roughly. "I never violated Claire! I entered with her express consent!"

"Consent? What consent can a child give? She didn't know what she was asking for!"

"She begged me to intervene, to help her! There was no other way to save all of you."

"But did she know you intended to keep her forever?" He releases her arm and steps back, his features now darkening with shame. But it's not enough for her, not nearly enough. She wants to see him bleed with shame. "Oh, yes, she remembers. We both remember, every time she wakes screaming from nightmares that you're going to come back for her."

"Tell her…" His jaw flexes with effort. "Tell Claire she needn't fear. I wouldn't have kept her. No matter my orders, I…such an act would be abomination. To myself and my charge."

It takes her a moment to absorb this reassurance, before it all clicks in place. "You played him! You made Jimmy think—you made him choose between himself and his daughter, because you knew he didn't want you back! You forced him to beg you to take him instead, because he thought—Oh, _God!"_ she cries to the ceiling. "What kind of God makes a creature like you and calls it an angel? You're nothing but a manipulative bastard, a contemptible body thief!"

"Call me what you will, but remember this: I saved his life."

"Did you? Because from what I heard before, you threw his life away first chance that came along. All you wanted was his body, and now you have it!"

"This isn't his body." He meets her shocked gaze. "The encounter with the archangel…there was nothing left of him or me."

The horror of that image would overwhelm her but for the fact that it doesn't make sense. "Then how are you here? Why do you still look like him?"

He looks away from her, and she knows he won't answer. It doesn't matter, because she doesn't believe him. She _can't_ believe him.

"No. No, you're lying. Do you think I don't know him? He was my husband!" _My partner. My lover._ She gathers up the pictures on the bed and shoves them into his chest. He staggers slightly before recovering, setting them gently on top of a nearby stack of boxes. As soon as he turns back, she's on him, striking him in the chest and fisting her hands in his lapels again. "You think I don't know this body? You think I don't know every line, every—" _sweep of muscle, jutted hipbone, pulse point—_

She stops, because there are no words—no words for this cold, furious swell of emotion, this yawning gulf inside her, screaming of hunger and loss, grief and_ need_—

Her hands are moving, twisting the material between her fingers and pushing at the shoulders, pulling at the sleeves until the trench coat finally falls roughly to the floor. She grabs at the dark suit coat, and that's when his hands come up and grasp hers, stopping her.

She looks up. His eyes are wide, his pulse beating visibly under his jawline. He's surprised, maybe even scared, and it arouses something dark inside her, something that wells up in her throat, tasting of bile and iron. She knows he can easily swat her aside and leave, but she also knows the weapon she wields.

"You owe me," she whispers. "You took him from me, and you owe me_—" the chance to search for him across the familiar planes of this flesh, to gather the scattered fragments of his soul, to atone at last for the way she—_

She jerks her hands away from him, gasping as if she'd just been slapped.

"Amelia?" There is real concern in his voice, making him sound almost like Jimmy, and she can't bear it. He tilts his head, seeking out her gaze until he finally catches it, and what she sees reflected back at her (_pity, compassion, dawning comprehension_) may finally break apart what she has held together for the past year by sheer force of will—and she can't bear it.

"Don't you say my name! And don't you dare pity me, not until you understand what…not until you understand!"

He averts his eyes, muscles in his jaw twitching as he seems to fight some battle within himself. Suddenly, he unfastens the jacket, shrugging it off his shoulders until it crumples to the floor beside the trench coat. Lifting his chin, he stares past her as if gazing into the far distance.

Just like that, she knows she has won. So this dark emotion inside her must be triumph, sporting a rictus grin as it sinks its teeth into her heart.

She steps closer and lifts trembling hands to his tie.

/-/-/

He is almost completely unclothed now. Not once has he moved his gaze from the far wall of the bedroom, not even when she'd accidentally brushed his bicep, raising a trail of goosebumps in her fingers' wake.

It's been an oddly detached ritual, undressing an angel, and she can't help feeling there should've been more fanfare to it, a promise of divine retribution crackling through an atmosphere thick with sin. Instead, there's been silence, except for her occasional curt directions. Her initial agitation sinks beneath a deep surface calm, like a wreck beneath a murky lake.

However, one thing is certain: this is almost definitely her husband's body. Maybe a little more muscled in the upper arms but not inexplicably so, considering his experiences of the past year (_grabbing the candlestick and attacking Roger with a brute force she'd never seen in him before_).

With that memory comes the disturbance of her calm (_ripples as something dark and sinuous breaks the surface of her subconscious_), and her fingers twitch with tension, hairs rising on the back of her neck. She grits her teeth against the pressure building inside her and hooks her thumbs around the worn waistband of his boxer-briefs, pulling them straight down his legs.

There. Right there at the top of his right thigh, where the fine hair on his legs gives way to the smooth skin of his pelvis, lie two faint, irregular birthmarks. Café-au-lait spots, they're called, and she remembers tracing their shape with her fingers in the lazy glow of mornings past.

Anger swells in her breast. "You lied to me. This is Jimmy's body!"

"I haven't lied." He keeps his gaze fixed on the far wall, although there's a rougher edge to his voice, if that's possible. "His body was destroyed by the archangel."

"Then how can it be so exact, even his birthmarks?"

"It was remade—"

"By whom? Who would be capable of doing something like this, making an exact copy of everything that was his, down to every detail?"

The angel tightens his lips (_Jimmy's soft, full lips),_ and she knows he won't tell her. He finally turns his eyes upon her, piercing her with a gaze that's every bit as frustrated as she feels. "What do you want from me? You say you want repentance, but you refuse to specify; you say atonement, but you won't say how."

"I want you to understand!" and she hates the vagueness of her clumsy words, but she dare not say more. She's wavering on the edge of an emotional precipice, and one more word might just—

"How am I to do that, when you keep yourself closed to me?"

For the first time in her life, she literally sees red, bloodied tints of rage creeping in from every corner of her vision. If she could, she would spit venom at him like a snake, but all she has is words. "So that's the only way you can do this, by having me open myself _to you?_ I have to let you dig around inside my brain, my soul? Let me tell you something, angel. If you want to get inside me, that's a two-way street. I get to get inside you, too." She points without taking her glare from him. "Bed."

His expression is a complex mix of anger, frustration, and trepidation, but he kicks his fallen briefs aside and obediently stalks toward the bed. She takes in his nakedness for the first time, the heaviness of his sex contrasting with the lithe lines of the rest of his body. She ought to feel appreciation or lust, she thinks, but those softer urges are crushed beneath the hard edges of intent.

He lies down on the thin sheet, arms straight at his sides, staring up at the ceiling like some kind of sacrificial offering. It infuriates her. He isn't the one who was sacrificed. She unbelts her dusty jeans and yanks them off along with her shoes, pulls her shirt over her head…then hesitates. Her breasts are small and have begun to sag a little—then again, this isn't about desire, and there's no need to please him. She unhooks her bra and tosses it to the floor before joining him on the bed, where she kneels at his side.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling as his chest rises and falls with shallow, uneven breaths. It could be arousal, but he's not erect, so she suspects it might be fear. Good. If she's going to open for him, it's only right that he is rendered as vulnerable as her.

She places one hand on his chest and feels his heart flutter beneath, then closes her eyes and carefully, fearfully, begins to lower the barriers that wall off her most painful memories. They seep out like acid, and she opens herself fully so that the angel may share in this poisoned cup.

.

"_I'm sorry, Mrs. Novak, but your husband's symptoms—hearing mysterious voices, delusions that God has chosen him for a secret mission—are definitely those of classic schizophrenia. It's an unusually late onset for James; schizophrenia usually manifests in men by the time they reach their late twenties, but it's not completely unheard of at his age. The good news is the disease is controllable with the proper drugs, especially with early intervention…"_

_.  
_

She skims her hand along his body, brushing over his lower abdominals, which quiver as she traces the thin line of hair leading downward. This isn't seduction, so she wastes no time with foreplay, reaching between his legs and grasping him firmly. He tips his head back and breathes hard through his nose as she strokes him, as if he doesn't know that he could breathe through his mouth instead. Maybe he doesn't.

.

"_Mrs. Novak, this is the Kankakee County Sheriff's Department. We'd like you to send your husband's dental records to our office at—No, no, we haven't found—well, yes, there was a body discovered near the river, but we have no clear indication…this is a formality only, Mrs. Novak. Two months ago? No, we don't seem to have received them; at least, they're not in our database. Would you mind sending them again? Sorry to disturb you, Ma'am."_

_.  
_

He begins to respond to her touch, but it's not fast enough for her, not near fast enough for the urgency building in her chest. She shifts lower, leaning in, and suddenly inhales his scent. Images of frost and lightning spring to mind, and she blinks, momentarily thrown by the strangeness of the cool scent rising from his heated skin. _Thunder snow_, she thinks, that strange weather phenomenon she's seen only a few times in her life, when lightning flashes and thunder rumbles as thick, heavy flakes fall from the sky.

However, her lapse is only momentary, because his alien scent doesn't matter; she knows this body better than her own, and she knows how to make its nerves sing and its skin burn for her touch. She pushes his thighs apart and slides into place between his legs, closing the last remaining distance between them as she guides him into her mouth.

He gasps and convulses, tightening his thighs and throwing his head back against the hard mattress. For a moment, she thinks he might wrench himself away from her and leap out of bed, but he remains trembling beneath her touch, his hands flexing as he turns his face sharply to the left. His body swells completely, and she takes him deeper, stroking him where he doesn't fit in her mouth while cupping the warm weight of his scrotum in her free hand.

He groans low in his throat, and his muscles begin to tighten. _'No, you don't,'_ she thinks, and digs a fingernail into his thigh, making him hiss with pain. Pulling her mouth from him, she growls, "Stay with me," no tenderness in the command. They still have a distance to travel together, and she has no intention of allowing him to leave before time. She closes her eyes and opens her mind, keeping one hand on him to make sure he's with her as she once again lets the bitter memories flow.

.

"…_yes, that's __Claire Novak—one of the best junior high forwards I've ever seen in the church league. Beautiful child, isn't she? and she's grown so much; I can only pray she keeps making the right choices. Oh, hadn't you heard? Her father walked out on the family, completely disappeared last winter, no note, nothing. If you ask me, there's a woman behind that somewhere; seems those traveling salesman jokes have a grain of truth in them after all. Oh! Hello, Amelia, I didn't see you arrive. Won't you sit with us? No? Some other time then, dear."_

_.  
_

It isn't helping. None of this is helping, nothing is being resolved, and it's all so pointless, because she's still in agony, still alone. All she feels is frustration and emptiness and despair, each emotion spinning into the next, over and over until her urgency evolves into panic. Only one thought is clear in her mind.

Need.

_I need him._

In one swift move, she pulls off her panties and straddles his hips.

_I need to find him again, please, please, he must be in here somewhere, just let me…_

Taking him in hand, she forces herself down onto him, half-expecting dryness, harsh friction, pain—but he slides into her as slick and full as if he were made for her (_the way Jimmy was made for her)._

He's looking up at her, his eyes wide, vulnerable, glistening. Jimmy's eyes—and the last barrier falls as she finally understands whose atonement she seeks.

.

"_Claire. Room. Now."_

"_Can I see her?"_

"_No. I don't know yet."_

_.  
_

She braces her hands next to his shoulders and rocks her hips urgently against him.

.

_His mouth curves in grief, that crazy, soft, poignant mouth, and his pain is a tangible, yearning presence between them. "The only thing that matters to me is you and Claire. And I…I can't undo what I've done…but I just want to come home again."_

_She shakes her head, stubbornly shielding herself with her own pain. "No. I don't know if I can do that. Not yet."_

_.  
_

Her breaths are coming faster; she's panting, maybe sobbing as she drives herself harder against him.

.

"_Daddy, aren't you going to say grace?"_

"_No, honey, I don't think I am."_

"_Why are you crying?"_

"_Because I'm happy…"_

_.  
_

And she can see that he isn't happy—he's devastated, adrift now that his faith is gone, and she should do something, reach out, catch his hand, but she doesn't, _she doesn't_—the doorbell is about to ring, bringing horror right into their home, and why doesn't she ignore the bell, take him in her arms, _tell him_—

The memory dissolves as the body beneath hers shifts, (someone is keening, _'I'm sorry, I'm sorry'_ in her voice), two fingers cross her line of sight and settle on her forehead, and—

.

_She's staring into Jimmy's eyes sparkling behind his goggles as he laughs joyfully, the lake spinning far below them as the skyline pierces the horizon with its blue, grey, and white spires. It's his thirtieth birthday, and she's saved enough money to splurge on a weekend in Chicago, topped off with a helicopter ride above the city. She's gripping her seat nervously, but he's loving every moment of it, the sensation of flight as they dip and swoop across the endless lake. The cabin vibrates with the rotor's noisy thwop-thwop, and he turns to her and mouths, 'I love you'—_

_.  
_

And she's shattering, falling against the man beneath her as her climax tears her apart, love and passion, grief and longing coming together in one yearning cry: "Jimmy! _Jimmy!"_

A strong arm clamps across her waist, and she's spinning in midair, falling against the mattress with him still inside her. He rears above her and drives into her, sending the aftershocks of her orgasm singing through her veins with every stroke. She grips his arms, helplessly riding his passion as he gasps words in some unknown language that sounds like prayer.

Suddenly, his arms go around her, encircling her back, and he pulls her upright so that she straddles his lap as he sits back on his haunches. He continues to thrust frantically up into her (_God, he's so strong_) as her aftershocks deepen, intensifying until they peak into a second orgasm, sharp, bittersweet, painfully intense. She throws her head back and cries out, and he buries his face in her neck, his harsh breaths warm against her throat. Two more powerful thrusts, and he groans, his shudders reverberating through her before he gives one last, deep push and rests his head against her shoulder.

They remain joined, quietly gasping for breath. She feels him continue to shudder against her, his breath hitching, his lips moving against her skin. Yielding to a sudden urge, she twines her fingers through his hair and pulls his head back so she can see him.

His face is wet, his eyes clouded, far away, as his lips keep moving. "Lost him," he's whispering in a sad, stunned litany, "I lost him...lost him." Suddenly he focuses, and he touches a hand uncertainly to his cheek, gazing in wonder at the salt tears staining his fingers. He looks up at her, the blue depths of his eyes reflecting her pain, her loss—and his face crumples. She pulls him to her as he trembles under the onslaught of his newly-awakened grief.

She's taught an angel how to mourn; now she'll teach him how to accept comfort. Threading her fingers through the dark curls at the nape of his neck, she rocks him gently against her body. "Sh-shh," she soothes, "it's all right, Castiel. We're going to make it through this; we're going to be all right."

/-/-/

_To be continued_

/-/-/


	3. Chapter 3

**Spoiler warning:** Spoilers through Season 5, Episode 3

**Warnings:** dark, adult themes; sexual situations

**Disclaimer:** All characters from Supernatural are the intellectual property of Eric Kripke, Warner Bros. Television, and Kripke Enterprises. I make no profit from this fanfiction.

**Author Note:** I apologize for the long delay in uploading this last chapter. I was abroad on a work trip and couldn't find time to work on this chapter until now. Please accept my thanks for your patience and encouraging words.

/-/-/

**Chapter 3.**

She rests on the single sheet covering the stripped down mattress, lying skin to skin with an angel, inhaling his stormcloud scent and thinking, '_I've never experienced this before._'

She curls into the warmth radiating from this body, this man, her head cradled in the familiar hollow of his shoulder as she matches her breaths to his, and thinks, _'I'll never experience this again.'_

Melancholy sweeps through her in a swift, relentless rush. She realizes if she wants peace, she'll have to expose the last of her pain to the light of day; if she wants absolution, she'll have to confess.

She knows he'll understand.

"I used to pray," she says, breaking the comfortable silence. "I used to pray a lot those first few months. I thought he was dead, but I still hoped…I'd say, 'Please, God, give me five more minutes with him. Give me just five minutes to tell him everything, what he meant to me, how much I loved—'"

His fingers tighten on her waist, and she shakes her head in response; it's not his guilt she seeks but to finish this for herself. "I was given more than five minutes; I was given hours. Yet instead of saying what I should've, I pushed aside his pain in favor of spilling out my sense of betrayal, _my_ pain—" The words sear her throat, but she forces herself to go on. "Why do humans do this? Why do we pray for a second chance, then throw it away when we get it?"

Her head rises with his inhalation, and she hears his voice rumbling in his chest. "He loved you and Claire—he loved you down to the cells of his being. And he knew that you loved him as well."

It's not the answer to the question she asked, but it's the answer she needs to hear. All the same, she has trouble accepting absolution so easily.

"Did he know it?" She bites her lip to keep from sobbing. "Because the last words I said to him in my own voice were, 'You're sick; get the hell away from us!'"

"Stop." It's a gentle command, but a command nonetheless. "Listen to me, Amelia. He drew his strength from your love, and in the end, he…his emotions were very powerful. You were right: I didn't understand. But I understand now, and I learned from him as well as from you."

So this is it. Jimmy's wake, funeral, and epitaph, or as much as he'll get in the face of the oncoming apocalypse. Her husband had taught an angel the truth of love—perhaps one of the greatest accomplishments any human could ever hope for.

She knows the horror of the end of days will strike her soon, yet this moment seems to hang suspended in time. This is her last chance to say farewell to the man she loved, and she can't help wanting one more piece of him, one memory untainted by grief and regret.

"Did he…was there any time during the past year when all this was worth it to him? When he was happy?"

The angel is silent for so long that her heart sinks. Her muscles begin to tense (_to pull away? To flee?),_ but he begins to speak, soft and low, as if he has difficulty forming the words. "It was after we'd left you and Claire at the warehouse. He and I were both…" His free hand clenches on his chest. "We needed _something_—so I searched his memories for a place, somewhere distant, pristine. We arrived just as the sun had begun to set. The top of your world: snow and ice as far as we could see, small shrines, flags flapping in the wind. Below us, other mountain peaks stretched to the horizon. Eternity. I woke him and let him take control. He blinked and—"

He lifts his hand from her waist and stretches both arms outward across the mattress. "He held his arms out like this and laughed and laughed…and then he cried. I had to take over; the air was thin and his eyelashes were freezing together. I had to take him away, but before he went under, he seemed…at peace."

"Everest." She's full out crying now, her tears running across his skin. "You took him to Everest!"

He sits up, alarmed, catching her shoulders and staring into her face. "I've upset you."

"No. No, you've made me happy," she sobs, then laughs at his confused expression. "It was his dream. He'd always wanted to go to Everest, but only to the base to see the mountain; he'd never dreamed of getting to the top." She scrubs at her face, trying to regain control. "You did a good thing. It was good. A good memory."

He still looks uncertain, so she smiles at him, noting that his hair is tousled in unruly waves—_Jimmy's sex hair_, she thinks, then blushes. _How completely ridiculous_._ Here we are, stark naked in bed together, and I'm embarrassed for thinking his hair is sexy?_

She isn't finished blushing just yet. Her change in position has caused the liquid evidence of their lovemaking to slide between her thighs, so, with a few stammered excuses, she escapes his embrace and flees to the bathroom to clean herself.

/-/-/

She freshens up as much as she can with a washcloth and a small bar of soap. She'd intended to stay at the house only long enough to put a few last things in order, so her big, fluffy towels have been packed away and sent to her mother's. No bathrobe, either, and her clothes are still scattered on the bedroom floor.

She peeks shyly around the bathroom door. He's standing at the window, looking out through the blinds. It's bright outside and dark within the bedroom, so it's unlikely anyone can see in, but still, should Rachel Tyler across the street catch a glimpse of a very fine, very exposed man at her window—

She clears her throat, and he turns, tilting his head as he looks at her. There's nothing salacious in his gaze, just mild curiosity, and she's struck by the essential innocence of this being. Nudity seems to mean as little to him as being clothed; he might not find it inappropriate to meet up with Dean with his clothes draped over his arm, and smelling of sex.

No. Just—no.

"Would you—" she holds her hand out. "May I do something for you?"

He follows her into the bathroom and watches patiently as she fills the sink with warm water. She's struck again by his stillness—doesn't he ever blink? Jimmy had always been quicksilver motion, expressions racing across his face as rapidly as his thoughts: eyes widening, nose crinkling, changing from serious to teasing in a heartbeat. Castiel, on the other hand…Castiel is different.

"Please turn around." It's easier with his back to her, so he can't see the slight tremble in her hand as she lifts the damp, soapy washcloth. She starts at his shoulders and neck, wiping away the faint traces of sweat near the dark curls at his nape. Falling into a rhythm, a trance almost, she follows the infinitely familiar lines of his back down across the tight muscles of his buttocks, the long sweep of his thighs, the curve of his calves, those slender ankles as graceful as her own.

She rises to rinse the cloth and reapply soap, kneels to clean him again, rises and kneels, rises and kneels, the repetitive motions sending her mind drifting back, recalling the flicker of candlelight, the scent of incense.

It isn't until she turns him to face her and begins tracing his collarbone that she realizes what she's doing. This is her final goodbye to this body, this exact copy of the shoulders she had slept on, the arms that had held her tight against his heart. It reminds her of the Japanese ritual of cleansing the dead, although the body beneath her fingertips is warm and breathing.

Bone-deep sadness permeates her being, a sorrow too profound for tears, but that suits her. She doesn't want the cloudy release of tears—she wants to remember this, to use her hands to engrave the memory of him deep into her being for the lonely stretch of years ahead or the bright, violent end of the world. Whatever is left of her future, she wants the memory of Jimmy beside her at the end.

Perhaps the memory of Castiel as well.

She drops the washcloth in the sink, having cleaned every last trace of their lovemaking from his body, erased her scent from his skin (_cleansed and prepared him for the battles that lie ahead_).

"Thank you." He places his hands on her hips and turns her toward the mirror. "There's something I need to do for you now."

His gaze searches her reflection, and she feels a gentle probing at the surface of her mind. She nods, although she's not quite certain what he's asking of her…a design…somewhere on her body? His hands move to the small of her back, lower still, and suddenly she feels the sensation of a thousand tiny needles piercing her skin. Before she has time to flinch or even gasp, the pain is gone. She turns in his grasp, trying to see in the mirror what he has done to her.

It's a symbol etched low on her spine, looking something like a sun with a five-point star in the center.

"This will protect you from demon possession in future." One corner of his mouth quirks up. "I'm sorry it couldn't be the butterfly you'd hoped for."

"That was a teenage fantasy. This is better, much better." It is better in every possible way, this release from the deep, crawling terror that someday _something_ is going to come after her again, force its way into her body against her will, make her perform unspeakable acts—

"Never again," he murmurs into her hair, and she can't help leaning back against him in relief. "But demons are not the only danger. I apologize, Amelia; this is going to hurt."

Before she can ask what he means, his hands slide around to grasp her ribs just under her breasts, and then—Her breath punches out in a sharp burst as pain rockets through her, leaving a trail of fire burning along her sides as her knees almost collapse. Tears blur her vision, preventing her from seeing his face, but she senses two fingers moving before her eyes—

And the agony abates, leaving her sore but able to breathe again. She blinks away her tears to see him peering over her shoulder with an expression of concern. "What was that?" she gasps.

"I carved Enochian sigils into your ribs. They will keep you hidden from angels—all angels, including fallen ones. Lucifer."

For the first time since she's learned of Jimmy's death and the threat of Armageddon, terror strikes her heart. It's the matter-of-fact way Castiel says the name that makes it clear the Devil is now walking among them. "Claire!" she chokes.

"She's safe for the moment. I had carved the sigils as I left her." He averts his gaze from her astonished reflection. "As my former vessel, she should be protected by Heaven's law from any other angel, but I have reason not to trust…I've learned to be cautious."

He stares impassively at the far wall, yet his pain is palpable in the small room. On an impulse, she turns and loops her arms around his neck, drawing his head down to press her forehead against his. _You're not alone,_ she thinks at him fiercely. _It might be just us humans who care, but still, you're not alone._

He leans against her lightly. It's only for a moment, but it comforts her that she can give him comfort. She glances at the mirror and is suddenly reminded of a phrase from her high school days. _Communing with angels, _Sister Bernadette Joseph used to exhort the girls, double chins waggling as she would fix her fiercest glare upon them. _You need to make yourselves worthy of communing with angels._

If Sister Bernie Jo were to catch a glimpse of her former student at this moment, naked with her arms clasped around an equally naked male angel—

Amelia can't help it; she stifles a giggle.

"Something amuses you?"

She smiles up at Castiel. "It's just a silly thought. One of my teachers—a nun, very strict and proper. If she saw me right now, she'd say, 'There aren't enough rulers in the world!'"

"Rulers?"

"To beat the sin out of me. She always did think of me as a troublemaker."

He draws back from her embrace and clasps her hands between both of his. "What happened between us didn't feel like sin."

"What did it feel like?" She's oddly breathless, waiting for his answer.

His eyes light up. "Redemption."

/-/-/

Clothed at last, she once again peeks around the bathroom door. Funny how the act of dressing seems more intimate than undressing, so much that she'd retreated to the bathroom with her hastily gathered bundle of clothes. She'd pulled herself together in privacy, tying her hair back into a severe ponytail, everything the same as earlier in the day. _Game reset_, she thinks.

To her relief, Castiel is dressed as well, with only his tie hanging loose as he tucks his cell phone in his coat pocket. "Dean will be here in five minutes." His brow creases as he fumbles with the tie. "He must not have driven far. He said he was about to knock the door down, but I assured him that wouldn't be necessary."

She smiles wryly at the thought of the hunter bursting in on them even twenty minutes earlier. Considering Dean's protectiveness toward his angel, she's grateful not to have faced his demon-killing knife or even the angry awkwardness resulting from such an interruption.

Walking up to Castiel, she brushes his hands aside, deftly taking over the tie-knotting problem. "He's a good friend to you."

"Yes," he answers in his usual noncommittal tone, but she hasn't missed the way his eyes shine and soften at the thought of his charge. He obediently tips his chin up at the pressure of her fingers.

"Do you really think he'll be the one to save us all?" She keeps her eyes fixed on his collar as she fastens the top button, not wishing to betray her fear.

He senses it anyway, touching her fingers to comfort her. "We're searching for all possible solutions. However, if it comes down to him in the end, I believe Dean will do whatever it takes to save this world and its people."

"I envy your faith," she says wistfully as she centers the Windsor knot and flips his collar down, smoothing it over the tie. Castiel has lost so much, yet he still has something to believe in. She wishes she could say the same.

"You can believe in him and perhaps also in me, to help him for as long as I'm able. And God, of course."

"So after all this, you still believe in God?" It seems a ludicrous question to ask an angel, but this particular angel has seen his share of Heaven's betrayal, if Dean Winchester's story is true.

Castiel tightens his jaw and stares past her for a moment. "Yes," he says quietly, and she realizes his faith is hard-won, probably from an internal battle fought fresh every day. The same way humans must fight for their faith.

She pulls a comb from her pocket and strokes it through his hair until it lies neat. He turns the full force of his otherworldly stare upon her. "Amelia, you must protect yourself and Claire. I've shielded you from Heaven's gaze, but demons and angels can still find you by human means. If they decide they want either of you, this house is the first place they'll look."

"I know. After the demon thing—" She pushes away the vision of Roger lying on her living room floor with his throat cut, a bloody horror miraculously gone by the time she and Claire had returned that night. Nonetheless, the memory haunts them both. "That's why the house is packed up; the movers are coming in the morning to place my things in storage. I've already pulled Claire out of school, and we'll leave my mother's house tomorrow. You were lucky to catch me here." She bites her lip, realizing how stupid that must sound under the circumstances.

He squeezes her hand. "Yes, I was lucky."

Suddenly she's lost in blue, in the endless clarity of his eyes, her heart beating fast as she wonders if time really is standing still—

The moment is shattered by the angry blare of a car horn.

Castiel releases her hand. "I have to go. I won't forget you, Amelia—and I won't forget him."

She nods, silenced by the lump in her throat. As he turns to go, she's struck by how much he looks like Jimmy, neat and combed and ready for Sunday service—

—and how wrong that is.

She catches his arm, making him turn back toward her, then yanks his tie until the knot lies crooked. She finishes by unbuttoning his collar and running her fingers through his hair, mussing it into angelic waves. "There," she chokes, "now you look more like you." Smiling at his confusion, she stands on tiptoe and kisses him on the cheek. "Good luck."

He opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by a fierce pounding from the front foyer.

"Go on, go," she makes a shooing motion, "before mankind's last hope knocks down my door."

She watches from the landing as he descends the stairs and pulls the door open, causing Dean Winchester to almost fall over the threshold.

"Geez, Cas, give a guy some warning!"

"You knocked. I answered. I fail to see what other warning you required." Again with the noncommittal tone, but she can sense his delight in teasing his charge. He looks back at her, and she lifts her hand, suddenly too shy under Dean's glare to say good-bye.

Castiel leaves her house for the last time. Dean catches the doorknob on his way out, shooting her a look that is equal parts resentment and confusion.

"Wait! Mr. Winchester, please wait!"

Dean glares up at her. "If you think I'm gonna do penance as well, you can—"

"No. No, please, I just need one minute." Without waiting for his reply, Amelia turns and runs back to her bedroom, dropping to her knees and dragging her old leather suitcase from under her bed. She tears through several boxes until she finds the oldest one, rips the duct tape curling from its seams, and starts throwing several items into the suitcase.

Jimmy's hiking boots, running shoes…she hesitates at a couple of soft packages covered in fraying Christmas wrap, then throws them in, followed by a pair of faded blue jeans and a few more articles of clothing. Fearing that Dean might leave if she takes any longer, she slams the case shut and hurries down the stairs.

To her relief, he's still scowling on her threshold. "Here!" She shoves the suitcase into his arms, ignoring the soft "oomph" driven from him. "I'm guessing you won't have much time to shop during the Apocalypse, so these are for him. Jimmy's things."

"Yeah." Dean is flummoxed, obviously having trouble coping with her radical attitude change from earlier. "Um, thanks."

"Listen," she places her hand on his arm, "promise me you'll look after him. Promise me you'll take care—both of you."

"Yeah, sure. Um, you too…and Claire." He heads out into the street, where Castiel waits beside the huge black car, head tilting as Dean grumbles something in his direction. Once Dean is occupied with fitting the suitcase into the car trunk, the angel looks back at where she stands watching them.

A gust of wind suddenly whips through the quiet suburban street, sending his trench coat flying out behind him. She's transfixed by the sight, barely registering as Dean curses the weather and slams his door, followed shortly thereafter by Castiel.

Long after the roar of the black car has faded into the distance, Amelia still stands in her doorway.

Thinking. Feeling.

Memorizing.

She knows she has taken only the first few steps on the long road of grief, and the worst still lies before her, nights of silent tears and hidden anguish as she and her daughter flee the terror of the Apocalypse. She knows her time as a woman is over, her role now solely that of mother-protector, fierce guardian of her child against the dark days that lie ahead.

Yet, she thinks, if she can hold onto this image—Castiel with his coat flying around him, Jimmy's face alight with joy as they stand on the peak of Mount Everest in the amber glow of sunset—she thinks she might make it through after all.

/-/-/

_The End_

_/-/-/_


End file.
